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“I know.”
“Please?”
“Ah, well, since you said please. Your brother has graced us with his presence the last ten nights and managed to rack up quite a bill.”
Arthur sighed. “How much?”
“A hundred grand.”
The raven gulped another bite from her fingers.
Arthur stared. “A hundred grand? You must be joking. What room costs ten grand a night?”
“It’s not merely the room. He ordered…room service.”
Arthur quietly groaned. Room service. She didn’t mean coffee, tea, and the soupdu jour. She meant a girl who’d serviced him in his room. As his father had jokingly called it once,room cervix.
“And you let him rack up a hundred grand bill?” Arthur said. “Why?”
“He’s the son of an earl. Why wouldn’t I?” She gave a shrug, careless and elegant. “We give our special guests a great deal of leeway, but when the tab hits six figures, we call it in. Hotel policy.”
Arthur stared up at the cloud-wild sky. It was strange, having this conversation while huddled under a black umbrella. They stood very close to each other, barely a foot apart. He could smell her scent, like evening fog. Or was it just the rain on her skin?
“A hundred grand is above my pay grade,” he said. “I’ll have to call my parents.”
“No need. He’s paid the bill. I accepted a painting in lieu of cash. This little meeting is simply an act of courtesy. And so that I have a witness it was not stolen but given in payment for his debt. Would you like to see the itemized receipt?”
“No. No. Absolutely not. That painting of Lord Malcolm is—”
“Mine,” she said. “You can go home now. Please. I’ve had enough of the Godwicks for the day.”
She wiped the blood from her fingers and plucked the umbrella from his hand.
But Arthur refused to be dismissed. “Enough of the Godwicks? What are you—”
“Rich, spoiled, entitled brats, the whole lot of you. Handed everything on a silver platter and still not happy. Do you people ever take no for an answer?”
He couldn’t argue with anything she’d said, so simply ignored it. “What did we ever do to you?”
“You exist. Bad enough.”
He scoffed. “Sorry, but I don’t have time for an ‘eat the rich’ debate, especially not with a woman feeding filet mignon to her pet raven on the terrace of a five-star hotel penthouse. Whatever you think of us, it doesn’t matter. Charlie stole that painting from my parents. Keeping it would be accepting stolen goods.”
And incredibly foolish, he didn’t add. To his family, that painting might as well have been a holy icon, though he didn’t want to explain why. She’d think he was mad as a hatter.
“Call the police then,” she said. “You can tell them who you are, and I’ll tell them who I am, and we’ll see whose surname scares them more.”
Gloom flapped his dark wings and flew off as if sensing things were about to get ugly on the terrace.
“Who are you anyway?” Arthur demanded.
“Regan. Regan Ferry. Lady Regan Ferry. As in the late Sir Jack Ferry. My late husband, to be clear, not my late father. People sometimes make that mistake. And yes, he did leave The Pearl Hotel to me.”
Brilliant. Just brilliant. Could Charlie have chosen a worse person to cross? This wasn’t some sleazy pimp he could call the cops on. Sir Jack Ferry had been a billionaire in life, a hotelier extraordinaire with connections in high places.
The Godwicks were rich and titled.
Sir Jack Ferry had been rich, titled,andpowerful.
